All the Wild Ways

by Caroline Tate

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  All the Wild Ways

  A Friends to Lovers Romance

  Caroline Tate

  Copyright © 2018 by Caroline Tate

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.CarolineTate.com

  Contents

  Get your free copy of Every Lasting Thing

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

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  About the Author

  Contact

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  Chapter One

  I’ve always hated coming out to the golf course. Not just the golf course— his golf course. It’s not the sport or the vibrant expanses of greenery that I despise so much. It’s the fact that walking the green takes forever. It gives me too much time to think about the things I’ve done out here. Sure, I could borrow a golf cart at the drop of Garrett’s name. But it feels wrong to bring him a job offer on company time.

  “Well, well,” Garrett drawls, his eyes fixed on me as I close the distance between us. “Look what the cat dragged in.” Leaning against his upright rake, he stands there waiting and wipes his forehead on the back of his arm. Staring me up and down as if he’s remembering that first night as vividly as I am, he makes me feel sexy in my faded overalls and bright red Keds. “If it ain’t Gator Girl.”

  “Hey,” I say, concentrating on the rake to avoid eye contact.

  I’m three years younger than Garrett. We’d been close friends growing up, but it’s been five months now since we last saw each other. Truth is I learned to keep my distance because my last boyfriend always saw him as a threat. Besides that, Garrett is standoffish, brash, and normally keeps to himself. He’s been that way for a long time now. I guess that’s just an excuse I continue to tell myself as to why he and I will only ever be friends.

  “You married yet?” He spits at the question, a disgusting side effect of his tobacco habit. Still, his choice of chew smells strong of cloves, and the scent on his breath always melts me. “To what’s his name? Daniel?”

  I scoff. “David. And, no. We broke up a while ago.”

  Garrett clicks his tongue in disapproval. “And you didn’t tell me?” His whistle of disappointment is reason enough for me to have kept it a secret. “Come on, Gator Girl.”

  That. That is why I didn’t tell him.

  Three years ago, Garrett and I slept together for the first time. It was the night he gave me my nickname— Gator Girl. It’s a well-deserved one that I both love and hate equally. But as much as I enjoyed that night with Garrett, I never meant for it to happen. I had a little too much of his whiskey after sundown, and as he drove me around the golf course for some fresh air, I spilled my guts to him about a guy in my Intro to Philosophy course who told the entire class I had shitwater eyes. “But your eyes ain’t even close to shitwater,” Garrett said, resting his hand on my bare knee. “They’re more like the color of wildflowers.”

  That was the first time he ever touched me and meant something by it. From then on, I was done for. He parked us right next to Hole Number Fourteen up on the crest of the hill, and we ended up having sex on the back of his Gator— the utility vehicle he uses to get around on the golf course. It wasn’t that romantic, and I doubt Garrett even remembers the wildflower comment that made me grow a tender spot for him. But from that night on, I was his Gator Girl.

  Squinting, I stare up at him. Beyond his height, the horizon bathes in a deep orange over the stretches of green grass. The air is so loud tonight that I can feel it vibrating with the buzzing hum of cicadas.

  “I didn’t come here to flirt,” I say over the noise.

  He nods. “Cuttin’ it to the chase then. What is it? What do you want?”

  I sigh, my voice now deadpan. “Dad sent me. He still wants you to sign.”

  “Jesus.” Shaking his head, he locks eyes with me and spits at the ground. “Come on then. Let me see it.” He thrusts his hand out in expectation, as if he hasn’t read the same contract ten times. Handing it to him, I watch his eyes drift across the page in a speed-read. He may talk like a country boy, but he isn’t stupid.

  I catch myself thinking about how handsome Garrett looks in the evening light. His navy polo shirt, his sandy blonde hair that always has a few blades of grass in it, his dark, lonesome green eyes. Even as he scowls, he looks like a natural out here. As if the rich, pay-to-play assholes don’t belong on his domain. That’s not even much of a stretch given how much blood and sweat he puts into manicuring the lawns. Flawless as they are, he’s basically King of the Course out here.

  “You could smile, you know,” I mutter, scratching at a bug bite on my thigh.

  “And why would I?” He shoves the paper back at me. “Your daddy don’t know shit about the Shoreline.”

  “Come on, Garrett. He does too know about it. How do you think he built the thing if he—”

  “Look, I’m not doing it.”

  Exasperated, I sigh. “He wants your input. He trusts you and knows you’ll be good and—”

  “And I don’t care. I’m not signing on under your dad. I spent three years busting my ass for that man at the brewery, and I regret each and every one of ‘em.”

  I can’t blame him for not wanting to be a part of the project, and maybe I’m selfish for wanting him to have it so much. Maybe I feel guilty for not taking the brewery on myself. “Two years. That’s all it is, Garrett. Two years and the business is yours. Shouldn’t you at least consider?”

  He clenches his jaw. “How many times has he asked me, huh? How many times have I already seen those damn papers and turned him down? It’s not like this is a first. I’ve considered, and the answer is no. The money don’t mean shit to me.” Lifting the hem of his shirt and exposing his tight stomach, he wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Now, I’ve got work to do.”

  Dropping into the nearest bunker, he starts raking the pristine sand. I d
on’t know much about golf, but I can tell that this part of the course doesn’t need any more of his attention.

  “Garrett,” I plead, not really caring if he takes the brewery or not. I just know that if I leave now, it’ll be a few more months until I see him again.

  “I’m happy here,” he snaps through gritted teeth. Looking up at me from the bunker, his tone is in sharp contrast to his words. “Unlike you, I enjoy my job, Rachel. I’ve worked hard to get where I am in life. I like not constantly being under someone’s thumb. I’m not doing it, end of story. I don’t need to be part of the Mark Easton fan club like everyone else around here.”

  “The… what?” Furrowing my brow, I hop down into the sand beside him. My feet immediately sink causing me to wobble, and his towering height suddenly makes me feel insignificant. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Not everyone worships the man like you do.”

  “I do not worship him.” Smacking Garrett on the bare of his arm as hard as I can, my palm stings. I recoil in pain.

  He turns to me with an annoying glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Come on, I fucking don’t.” Crumpling the unsigned papers, I throw them at his feet.

  “Oh yeah?” Pushing the rake, he lets it fall to the ground beside me with a thud and steps closer. A foot still remains between us, but already I can smell the clove on his breath and the bug spray on his slick skin. His proximity catches my heart in my throat, and the friction between us is unbearable.

  “Yes,” I snap, having already forgotten what we’re arguing about.

  “Is that why you’re out here doing his bidding?”

  My mouth falls open. “I’m— I’m not doing his bidding,” I quickly sputter. “I came here to ask you something.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.” Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his khakis, he continues to stare me down with a familiar heat building in his eyes.

  The problem with Garrett is all he’d ever wanted from me is heat. Just sex, nothing more. And though I crave that from him, too, I miss the old Garrett. I miss the person he was before everything happened that summer at the lake. The Garrett I actually connected with.

  “Kate asked if you were coming to the River Roast tomorrow,” I say, knowing full well she isn’t reason enough to bring it up. “It’s at the waterfront.”

  The River Roast is an annual event in Southport to gather the community and kick off the beginning of summer. My best friend Kate helps organize it every year.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t sure if you were going or not, so I told her I’d ask. Everyone’ll be there. You should go, too,” I say, my voice having lost it’s harsh edge.

  The green of Garrett’s eyes pulls away from me as he stares off toward the setting sun. Only a thin ribbon of glowing light remains on the horizon, and he seems more apt to study it than to answer my question.

  “You haven’t been in so long,” I say.

  Glancing down, he sighs and presses a knuckle to his temple. He spits another string of tobacco juice that dampens the sand at his feet.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” I say, following his gaze down to the sand.

  Looking back up at me, he raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

  “Dip.”

  He scoffs and shakes his head.

  Garrett’s been dipping for years— ever since he graduated high school. I’ve only ever said anything about it once or twice, but not wanting to rile him up, I drop the subject. “Look, the Roast will be fun. I’m sure if you come, you’ll have a good time.”

  Suddenly, his lips curl devilishly as he sidles up to me, closing what little gap remains between us. My chin is forced upward to meet his smothering gaze, and I immediately feel short of breath.

  “You want me to come, huh?” he asks, like it’s some dirty secret he’s been harboring.

  “Shut. up.” I warn with a snapping click of my tongue. There’s a little part of me that hates him for being so closed off from everyone. But the rest of me is disappointed in myself for always falling into his stupid traps. “I just wanted to let Kate know one way or another.”

  “Liar.”

  “Shut up,” I shout. Rage having built up inside me, I shove him as hard as I can, not expecting him to budge. But to my surprise, he topples over backward with a hurried grasp of my wrist leaving me no choice but to fall on top of him. As he yanks me down with him, my chin jams into the warm space above his collarbone. And here I am, sprawled out across the solid mass of his chest, the impact of our fall having knocked the air right out of me. I groan and try to recover from the panic. My bleach blonde hair obscures my view of him, and even more annoying, I rise and fall to the cadence of his breath as he starts chuckling.

  “I hate you,” I growl, still trying to catch my breath.

  “Yeah, that must be why you came all this way.” Hooking his fingers around the straps of my overalls, he pins me in place. “Could’ve just sent me a text,” he says.

  “Don’t act like I haven’t tried. You never answer them.” I push my palms against the flat of his chest in a weak attempt to lift myself off of him, but he curls his fingers tighter, drawing me further into the hot stream of his breath. Freeing my hands, I gather my hair out of my face. I hadn’t touched him in months, and as I lick my parched lips, I swear I can taste him on them.

  “Maybe,” he says, “but you came out here for somethin’ else.” His lips widen into a grin that make his teeth shine in what little sunlight is left on the horizon. “‘Cause if it’s another go on the Gator you want, all you gotta do is say so.”

  “Fuck you.” With a hurried swat I shove his hands away and roll off of him into the thick of the dune. My canvas shoes instantly fill with sand as I sink into a slowed escape— far less dramatic than I would have hoped.

  “Offer still stands, Rachel,” he calls out to me as I leave him there in the bunker. “You want a ride, you know where to find me.”

  Gritting my teeth, I dare not turn back toward him. Even through the dim light of the evening, I worry he’ll see the rise of heat on my cheeks. “Yeah well,” I shout over my shoulder. “You change your mind, you know where to find my dad!”

  “Nah thanks. He ain’t really my type!”

  Chapter Two

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking for Garrett all afternoon at the River Roast. Half of the town is here, mostly locals. The resort and golf course easily double the combined Oak Island and Southport population in tourists this time of year. But the visitors are usually scared off by the two whole pigs we have roasting over the open flame. A pig pickin’ is what we call it down here.

  “Your Aunt Doddie brought some of her coleslaw.” My dad shoves a paper plate of the white mush at me, and already I can smell it’s turned sour, having sat out in the heat too long. “Have you had any of that?”

  “No, thanks,” I say, refusing the plate. My stomach aches with all the pulled pork and hush puppies I’ve already eaten. The scents floating from one table to the next are overwhelmingly complex— macaroni and cheese, fried green tomatoes, baked beans, collard greens, pimento cheese, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, dump cakes, sweet potato pie, blackberry cobbler, and fruit preserves. There’s not a food in existence that isn’t laid out somewhere on one of these tables. Full as I am, I feel like I’ve already sampled half of everything.

  “Just wanting to make sure you’re eating enough, kiddo.”

  Smiling at him, I excuse myself. I catch sight of Kate across the lawn. She’s juggling three huge watermelons, trying to find space for them on the dessert table. Her dark hair is chopped right at her shoulders, and she’s wearing a sleeveless blouse with tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses.

  I drop my plate in the nearest trash can and head for her. Weaving through the crowd puts me in a mangled maze of memories. Everyone here seems to be enjoying the summer kick-off on the riverfront, no matter how hard the sun is blazing this afternoon. I pass my very first babysitter, my th
ird grade teacher, a girl I recognize from work, and that one guy who confessed his love for Kate in the middle of high school gym class.

  As I reach Kate, one of the watermelons slips from her arms and busts open against the concrete, splattering its juice at our ankles. “Goddamnit,” Kate says in her twang-adorned accent. Three elders turn and look at her in silent reprimand of her language. Squatting down, she looks like she’s about to piece the busted fruit back together.

  “Nice melons,” I whisper, grabbing one of the green spheres from her. Setting it on the nearest table, I hear small peals of laughter coming from her. I’m proud of the joke, even though it’s probably one I’d picked up from Garrett.

  When she unloads the second watermelon, she reaches down toward the ground under the tablecloth and snatches her half-empty bottle of beer. I follow her to the crags lining the river, and we take a seat on the rocks. The stones are scorching with the heat of the day, and as I sit, they burn the back of my thighs causing me to squirm.

  “Everything looks great,” I say, surveying the roast from afar.

  She scoffs and glances around. “Yeah, look at this place. It’s already a thousand degrees. Gnats galore. Watermelon juice flyin’ everywhere. Things are off to a great start, if I do say so myself.” Shaking her head, she looks down to examine her cowboy boots. She picks some of the watermelon guts off them and tosses it over the rocks. “At least I’m getting loaded,” she says, dangling her bottle in my direction.

  Laughing, my eyebrows draw up in disbelief. “Are you drunk?” It doesn’t take much for a girl as small as Kate to feel a bit of a lift from the alcohol. I’ve learned this from drinking with her.